Dark Tales From the Secret War

by John Houlihan

  “Good. Then our…collaboration is at its end. Pray there is never cause for another.”

  And with that, Schiller spun on his heel as if to depart.

  “Hey. Hey!”

  Schiller stopped, mid-turn, and looked back over his shoulder. “Yes, Captain?”

  “Aren’t you going to cut me loose?”

  Schiller thought for a moment. “No,” he said, and walked away.

  THE KING IN WAITING

  By Dan Griliopoulos

  A young lady stepped lightly down from a hansom cab in the new suburbs of Barnet, in far North London. She was slight, with bobbed brown hair, oval glasses, a round hat, and a two-piece tweed suit that made her look much older than her years. The only dissonant element was at her waist and at her wrists, where clusters of gewgaws, gimcracks and fetishes dangled and clashed as she moved.

  The cab had deposited her in the middle of a building site and she looked around for a moment. She was standing at the end of a row of ugly new houses, where they faded into construction equipment. Up the road was a suburban scene, with topiary-heavy gardens and red-tiled roofs topped by small birds lazing in the summer sun. Here, rubble and cranes dominated, with a long Nissen hut acting as a site office. As she took it in, a suntanned man in overalls and a builder’s helmet jumped up from his desk in the hut and hurried over.

  He smiled ingenuously. “Can I ‘elp you, Miss?” he said. “Do you need directions somewhere? This building work is rather dangerous.” He gestured widely around at the deserted dig site and made to escort her away.

  “My name is Emily Confort, of the Met Office.” she said, pulling her elbow out of his grasp. “George is expecting me. He said to say ‘Chrome Yellow’.”

  The man’s chummy demeanour changed to respectfully dour. “Oh! Oh.” He frowned and then turned back towards the site office. “You’d better come down.”

  There was a moist warmth and sharp actinic smell inside the corrugated steel hut. A pair of huge ventilation shafts loomed over both the foreman’s cheap desk and a steep spiral staircase going down. He handed her a tin helmet. “You’d best wear this, miss.” Emily shook her head at the proffered helmet, and peered down into the banister-less depths. “Well then. Watch your head and your step. Come this way.”

  * * *

  Deep beneath the suburban streets, Emily was led through fresh-laid concrete corridors, already rich with damp. Through reinforced doors and concrete window frames, she saw cramped rooms, wireless stations, blackboards, soldiers, pipes and cables, cables, cables everywhere. One room was even crammed with an entire BBC radio studio, complete with scurrying technicians and a familiar Brilliantined presenter.

  Finally, her escort stopped at a door at the dead end of a corridor, guarded by a tall corporal carrying a carbine. “Hallo Sid.” said her escort. “This is the last of them for, uh. George.” The corporal looked at a clipboard, then stooped to open the door. Emily went in.

  “Ah, Miss Confort! We’re finally all here. Good. Call me George. Please take a seat.”

  Inside, the room was bare-walled, small and low, but it made ‘George’ seem perfectly to scale. He was slight and dapper, with the perfectly forgettable features that suited people in old, anonymous professions. His slim fingers drummed on the desk, with the animation of a restless mind, but his eyes were ancient, cold and flat behind his wide glasses. Even as he smiled and crooned an amiable thanks to the departing guard, his dispassionate, shielded calculation never quite thawed.

  Emily looked around at the other three occupants of the room. A worn-looking man in an unfamiliar uniform was staring absently at his hands, while an RAF officer lounged languidly across a row of chairs. On the front row, a florid, balding giant sat stiffly in obvious discomfort in tight civilian clothes. The RAF man glanced up and patted the seat next to him invitingly. Emily smiled tightly, and moved across to sit quickly next to the unknown soldier, snapping him out of his reverie. “Schweik” he said thickly, extending a workman’s hand, its nails close-bitten. Emily shook it.

  George closed the bunker door and walked to a blackboard. “Now we can get on — yes, Mr Hartington. You have a question?”

  The sweating giant lowered his hand and pulled nervously at the restrictive collar of his Sunday Best jacket. “Mr George, sir. Though it’s an honour being here, I’m just a bobby. I don’t think I should be seeing this secret stuff. The bunker and the radios and Mr Churchill’s office and all that. It’ll be awfully hard not to tell the missus. Are you sure I should be here?”

  “Now, Mr Hartington — you are crucial to this mission, along with Lieutenant Smythe.” He nodded a smile at the sprawled dapper man. “Miss Confort and Captain Schweik are just here in case of problems, really. For example, Mr Hartington, I assume you know of Sir Oswald Mosley?

  The bald pate reddened and the great face grimaced. “Yes, sir. We had to deal with his lot at the battle of Cable Street, round by Wiltons. Nasty bunch, those Blackshirts. And the government ordered us to protect them. A few thousand police against a hundred thousand locals! Idiocy. I must admit, I was glad when they got the boot.”

  George nodded. “Well, you may recall that after the banning of the BUF, Mosley was interned. Locked up because he’s too much of a threat to the na —”

  A squawk of laughter interrupted George. “What, Tom Mosley, ‘a threat to the nation’? Pshaw!” Smythe guffawed and slouched more in his smart uniform. “That socialism rot he babbles might have disordered his old brainbox a little, and he always had a problem with the Yids — who doesn’t — but he loves this country. Tom, a threat? Ha!” He squawked again, contemptuously.

  George looked over his glasses, his face still. “Ah, yes. This is Flight Lieutenant Smythe. As you can tell from his familiarities and politics, he’s an old school friend of Mosley’s from Winchester.” Smythe nodded avuncularly. George continued. “It is true that Sir Oswald was once a socialist, a very progressive one at that. His proposals for a national unemployment benefit alone are thirty years ahead of their time. But since his reform agenda was rejected and he was expelled from the Labour party, he is now very much a national socialist, indeed the senior fascist on these shores.”

  George frowned. “The key point is that Mosley, rightly or wrongly, was interned as a threat to the establishment. The man is a personal friend of both Hitler and Goebbels, and related to much of our aristocracy, including the royal family. If the Axis ever conquered these shores, you may rest assured that Mosley would be the head of their government, as Prime Minister or perhaps even as King.”

  Smythe started to interject, but a hand movement from George silenced him. “From this point on everything you hear is top secret. You are to repeat this to no-one — you hear me, Mr Smythe, no-one. We will hear of it if you do.”

  “The crucial fact.” He held up a photo of a handsome lean man with short dark hair and an incongruous moustache. “Sir Oswald Mosley disappeared from his internment house in Holloway two days ago. We suspect he had aid from either Blackshirt elements or Nazi agents or both, given the guards we’d placed about him. Our reports now put him back in the East End.”

  “That’s your stomping ground, Mr Hartingon, your beat. The task is to track him down and we’re told that you’re the best man for the job.” Hartington nodded. “And once Hartington finds him, you take over Mr Smythe. You know him of old, so your job is to persuade him to come quietly — say whatever it takes. Captain Schweik will be running security, in case you can’t persuade him. And Miss Confort will be in charge of the mission.”

  “Oh, balderdash,” interjected Smythe’s blather. “Come now. I’m sure she’s lovely, but this gal looks like my maiden aunt. What’s her rank? She —”

  George’s soft voice cut through his blather surgically. “Mr Smythe. If I have to silence you again or if I have reason to suspect your commitment to this mission, you’ll be sent back to your squadron under a very heavy cloud. Firstly, Captain Schweik outranks you. Secondly, you do not know and w
ill not know Miss Confort’s rank, but she outranks him. She is an acting member of MI18, and you will do what she says, by order of your superiors. Clear?”

  Smythe’s face purpled, his protruding eyes bulging a little more. He stared round at Em. She looked coolly back. He cleared his throat nervously. “Right,” he muttered. “Right, sorry, yes. Clear. Necessities of war, and all that, right? Right.”

  “Good. Mr Hartington. What are the most likely places Mosley could have gone to ground? Where shall we start?”

  * * *

  It was a grey, rainy dawn as Hartington led the team out of Whitechapel underground station, joining the crowds flocking out from a bad night’s sleep on the tube platforms. Every class of London life was represented here. Harried-looking bankers heading off to the city, housewives rushing to see if their houses had survived the night’s bombing, barrow-boys and spivs recovering their wares from lock-ups in anticipation of a day of legal and illegal trading, and the many staggering homeless. The only element absent was men of fighting age.

  Where Hartington had been quiet and out of place in the surroundings of the bunker, here he, in his dark blue uniform and custodian helmet, amongst people who knew and respected him, he was very much in charge. Even amongst these packed crowds, he was given a respectful space, with the occasional accidental jostle resulting in profuse apologies.

  The team regrouped on the corner of Commercial Street. “I’m just happy we made it out of there. I’ve not used the underground since that bomb hit Balham. And the smell!” said Smythe, clutching a bright hanky to his face. Schweik looked anonymous as ever, in a synthetic double-breasted suit, dingy Mac and carrying a cardboard suitcase, and Confort’s drab outfit hadn’t changed, but Smythe was dressed to impress, in a cornflower blue tweed suit, lemon fedora and snappy shoes.

  “Hmm.” said Confort, looking Smythe up and down critically. “Smythe, you look like a pimp. Don’t you know there’s a war on? Schweik, give me your overcoat and go with Hartington. Smythe, put this on and stay with me — you’ll draw too much attention dressed like that. And try to not make your face that colour, it doesn’t go with your shoes.” Smythe’s face purpled more, but he stayed quiet and put on Schweik’s old overcoat, though not without a grimace of distaste.

  They spent the morning trawling the markets of the East End. Even this early on a Sunday, the markets were buzzing with shoppers and hawkers. Whilst Harrington and Schweik glad-handed the traders and questioned them openly about anything unusual, Confort and Smythe trailed in their wake. With their incongruous clothing, they looked the part of a middle-class couple slumming it, whilst they listened in for tidbits from the shouted conversations of the traders. Though the locals knew Mosley from the Cable Street riots, the team had to be cautious. After all, the man was still meant to be interned in Holloway, as far as the people here knew.

  Around mid-morning, they’d walked as far as Petticoat Lane market and started to hear their first rumours. “A tall dark posh chap?” said one Indian trader, smiling at Schweik. Her stall was full of damaged bric-a-brac ‘recovered’ from bombed-out houses. “We’ve seen a few of those down Limehouse way. Peabody would know.”

  On Columbia Road market, an old Jewish man greeted Hartington effusively, trying to give him a black market orange that the big policemen turned down guiltily, before telling them tall tales of giant rats in the sewers.

  Sitting in a crammed wooden booth of a flower-tiled pie and mash shop for an early lunch, the team listened in to the traders and fishwives gossiping over their eels, pies and tea.

  “…Somefink off in the sewers. Not talking ‘baht the rats, though they’re hee-ooj. Somefink big dahn there, eating all the fat…”

  “…and that Peabody said he saw a chap who looked just like Sir wossisname, skulking down by Wapping…”

  “…I wonder where Mr Minze gets the meat for these pies, with the rationing? Never seems to be a shortage…

  “…isn’t that Constable Hartington? I remember when he used to box. Now, he could have been a contender…”

  “…and then I sing ‘Oh, when I am dead and forgotten as I shall be, and sleep in dull, cold marble with… these lovely utility towels, ten bob a pair.’ It’s a good patter for selling knickers, innit?”

  “…Nah. Can’t be him. That slimy bastard is under lock and key up at Holloway. And he wouldn’t dare show his face round here again. Not after we showed him what for at Cable Street…”

  “Men ken lebn nor men lost nisht! And I’ll say it again.”

  “…a hunchback and a giant?…Peabody’s usual tripe… Was very Blitzy last night, wasn’t it..? ”

  The team put their heads together as lunch ended and the traders sloped back to their stalls. Confort looked inquisitively at Hartington, as he tucked into his third pie and liquor.

  “This Peabody seems to be our man. Who is he?” Hartington put his fork and spoon down with a clatter and wiped his moustache on a napkin before responding.

  “A local spiv. Don’t think Peabody’s his real name, as he looks Irish or Jewish. He works out of those squats in Brick Lane. Absolutely fearless little lifter. If it wasn’t nailed down, he’s already sold it. And he’s got a knack for machines — he can fix anything. Speaks absolute rot, mind. But, yes, he’s probably our best lead.”

  Even amid the bustle of Brick Lane, Peabody was easy to find. From a distance Hartington pointed him out, skulking outside the Spitalfields Great Synagogue. He was a short, indeterminately-shaped figure, bundled in ill-fitting clothes. As soon as he saw Hartington approaching, Peabody turned to run — smack into the solid grip of Schweik. A surprisingly young face, dark with grime, looked up at the Easterner.

  As the group approached, he turned his breathless spiel directly on Hartington. “Morning officer and isn’t it a lovely morning now I know what you’re here for you must be confusing me with someone else you’re looking well I used to love it when you boxed by the way those lights were always loose and I said that they were a hazard you had a lovely right hook and sure someone took them down for rep —”

  Hartington interposed his heavy voice into the flow. “Peabody, I’m not here for the Synagogue lights. But, incidentally, if you know where they are, it would be good if they were returned and sharpish. I wanted to ask if you’ve seen anyone or anything odd around the area recently?”

  The small figure visibly relaxed, and hung his head. “Well, there’s the bloody Nazis in St George in the East, which no-one will believe me about. Apart from them, no.” Schweik drew a sharp breath and Hartington froze. Peabody glanced up, smiling. “Ha! I knew it! I knew it. Wait until my mum hears —”

  Emily stepped forward. “Mr Peabody. We’ll need you to show us where they are. And from this moment forth you’re enlisted. And covered by the Official Secrets Act, 1920. You can’t talk about this to anyone, ever. Loose lips sink ships.”

  “Especially not your mum.” said Hartington. “Mrs Peabody could sink the Graf Spee all by herself.”

  * * *

  Peabody was talking incessantly as he led Confort’s crew over the rubble of East End homes, some still smoking from the previous night’s raids. Holes in the lines of buildings let Emily see the Thames and the South Bank beyond. Whilst the industrial east of London was gap-toothed with burnt-out homes, south of the river was simply a wasteland, obliterated by carefully-misdirected carpet bombing. The peak of the raids had already passed in September 1940, two months of continuous raining death that destroyed a million homes and killed over 20,000 people in the city. Everywhere they walked, squatters sat in the wrecks of their homes. Underfoot, the city was just a mass of burned clay bricks, in various stages of disintegration. Whilst the others walked in stunned, respectful silence, this devastation was home to Peabody, so he chattered on.

  “I thought there was something up. You know, when the Lea caught fire and then the Thames at the end of last year, they said it was from the hit on the gin factory and the sugar stores. So I was wondering what was bur
ning and, honestly, whether I could sell it. But when I went in there to have a recce both places were cleaned out. And that’s when I saw the Nazis. I still don’t know what the fire was from, bright blue like —”

  “Hush!” said Schweik, breaking his silence and motioning them into the cover of a half-fallen wall. The strange pepperpot towers of St George’s were silhouetted against the low afternoon sun and, for a moment, no-one else understood the reason for caution. Then, they saw it. Throughout the churchyard, figures were walking through the worn gravestones towards the church doors. There was a skulking camaraderie about them, as they greeted each other. “Just the fascists.” hissed Peabody. “Must be something important on. Not normally this many of them.”

  They waited until the churchyard was clear and Hartington led them down to the church doors. Confort briefed them. “Now, gentlemen. We’re going to go in there and get Mosley. Mr Smythe, I want you to talk to Mosley — he knows you so your job is to persuade him to come quietly. Promise him anything it takes to keep him quiet while we clear the room, then bring him in. If he doesn’t come quietly, we have the authority to use force.”

  “I hope he listens to sense” said Smythe, shaking his head. “But Tom was very good at doing the opposite of what he was told.”

  “Well, try. Now Mr Hartington, Mr Smythe. None of those men looked armed but, for safety, Captain Schweik will give you pistols now. Do not use them unless you have to, but keep them visible.” Schweik opened the battered suitcase and started handing out Webley revolvers to the team, reserving a more formidable-looking automatic for himself.

  “Are these loaded?” asked Hartington, bristling. “I’m sorry, but I’m not going to kill anyone, especially not one of Her Majesty’s subjects. I prefer to get up close. Not exactly a fair fight with a gun anyw —”

  “It’s quiet.” Schweik interrupted. “Where’s Peabody?” They looked around, but the little spiv had vanished. Emily groaned.

  “Right, he must have run. Damn, I needed him to call the police. We’ll find him later. Hartington, I know all about your objections, don’t worry — but you might be grateful of that gun later.” The giant policeman looked bashful. “Smythe, Schweik, take the Rectory door. We’ll go in the front.”